The Start of Something New
by Johnlockian221B
Summary: Three years after Sherlock's return from the Fall, John and Sherlock marry and adopt a son-Hamish. Hamish goes missing and Sherlock and John do their best to get their son back from the very person they fear. Rated M for abuse, violence, and gore.
1. A Fresh Start

The Start of Something New

A BBC's Sherlock Fanfiction

_Sherlock's hands were warm and gentle as they took John's. He could feel the strength in those hands, and the small, nearly perfect calluses formed from years of work. There were slight grooves in the front and sides of the doctor's delicate fingers, to which Sherlock knew were from the uses of a gun. A slight tremor had taken over one deep copper-tinted hand, one that hadn't stopped over the years. The tremor didn't cause Sherlock to let go, but rather, hold his hands tighter in his own. _

The scent of freshly brewed tea filled the small flat of 221B; a familiar, calming scent at that time in the morning. Dr. John Watson stood at the stove cooking in his loose pyjama bottoms, the same deep red plaid ones his husband had bought him. _"You look good in red," _he had said, as explanation. As the pancake turned a deep golden, the doctor carefully placed it on the stack next to him.

Suddenly there were arms around him, snaking around his waist and tugging him close. There was soft, warm breath on his neck that smelled faintly of mint, and a gentle nose nuzzling his hair. A smile drifted to John's face, and he leaned against the embrace. "Good morning," he breathed. He loved waking up this way-especially when there wasn't work or school for any of them to rush off to. The past three years had been bliss, with no danger to speak of. Just himself, Sherlock, their family. "Hamish still sleeping?"

The nose moved downwards in what John took as a nod. Smiling, he gave a chuckle and began working on the next pancake. "That's a good thing. He was up late."

"_You're _the one who wanted to play that blasted Cluedo," was the detective's only answer, but it was one that made John chuckle as he recalled the previous night's events. "Well, yes, but I wasn't aware you'd stab the board if we did."

A huff passed Sherlock's lips and he moved to John's side, offering him a rare smile. One that John liked to claim were saved only for him. After a pause, Sherlock moved to thump down on the couch, tucking his sheet around him as he shifted into his laying position. John's smile faded and he was about to ask what was wrong, when a tiny bundle of dark curls nearly knocked him off his feet as it hugged his legs.

John was forced to grab the counter for support, trying to keep himself from falling on to the small child. His smile returned. "Good morning, Mish," he greeted, kissing the small, dark head. "Sleep well?" Hamish. His son. The bundle of joy that caused him to laugh each day, to smile constantly. His light.

Deep blue eyes peered out of the dark, rowdy curls. Eyes that took in everything, seemed to know every secret, outsmart any bluff. At the moment, the deep blue looked like the bright London sky after a fresh rainfall, the gold in them shining like brass.

_The small boy lying across from them was pale, much too pale. Icy blue veins stuck out and decorated his body like crude lacework. The lids of his closed eyes were a bruised, pale violet. Underneath those lids, the detective knew were blue eyes. Blue eyes as deep and dark as the sea, never to be alight again. A small, rare tear trickled down the man's cheek…_

Hamish smiled brightly. "Mhm. Real good, Papa," he agreed. The small boy paused, turning to glance into the sitting room. "Dad's pouting," he said simply, hopping into a chair. "You didn't kiss him-probably." A brow lifted on the doctor's face, and he moved to stare at Sherlock. "Is _that _what your problem is? Sherlock, for goodness sa-"

"You _always _kiss him in the morning, Papa. He thinks you're cross with him."

John studied Sherlock for a moment more, before he walked over, seized Sherlock's sheet in his fists and kissed him firmly and deeply. It took a moment, but Sherlock gladly returned the kiss, a small blush lighting across his cheeks. John pulled away, grinning like a fool. The other man's mouth opened to give a reply, or question from the look on his face, when a small, fragile looking woman appeared. "Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson cooed, gesturing downstairs, "There's someone at the door. He's been asking for you and making the most dreadful fuss."

The ravenette rose from the couch, going to the doorway with a loud sigh, muttering irritably about fools. John paused as he watched after him, then turned to dish up Hamish's pancake. He was halfway through cutting it and listening to Hamish go on about his dream that had something to do with ghosts and demons and…salt? When Sherlock rushed in. "John, come. I can't make out a word this idiot is babbling on about."

"And you think I can?"

"There are times where you sound similar."

"Remind me to thank you for that later, you git."

"That wouldn't be in my best interest, I assume. Will you just come?"

John sighed. "Yes, yes, alright. Fine," he answered, straightening. He turned to Hamish before he turned to leave. "Just eat what you got. Wont be a moment, love." He gave his son a small smile and then went to walk out the door, wondering what on Earth this man could want.

Hamish nodded silently, watching. "Okay. Thank you, Papa. Love you."

"Love you too, Misha."

It took several minutes for them to figure out what the man was saying. Sherlock hadn't been kidding¾he hadn't made much sense. _Fingers beat five, three times. Fingers beat five three times. Fingers beat five three…Watch him. Watch him! Watch. _

They ended up sending him away, not bothering. John headed back to the kitchen, calling to Hamish. Silence answered. Frowning, they called again, louder. Hadn't he heard them? Hamish always answered… "_Hamish!" _John shouted.

Nothing.

Both men began to search their flat, tearing it apart in their search. Neither men found anything, save the shattered plate on the ground. As John stared at the pearly white shards, he could feel each one pierce his heart.

_The boy's hair was neatly combed, some stray strands falling in his eyes. _He always hated that, _Sherlock recalled weakly. _And yet he would never get it cut. _The colour was dark against his forehead, much too dark. The ends were slightly curled, as though they were drying from a recent trip through the rain. The detective knew it hadn't been rain that had matted the child's hair, but something richer, darker. He could remember the small ribbons sliding through his fingers as he tried to seal the wound, tried to save him…_


	2. Cat and Mouse

Chapter Two: _Cat and Mouse_

_A small engine lay in a limp, winter-white hand. The paint glimmered blue in the dim sunlight, somehow looking brand new, though clearly old. The tank engine's face was chipped and cracked, the rosy cheeks and smile the only thing that gave way that it was supposed to be cheery. Its painted smile seemed false and sickly, the eyes staring out endlessly. It seemed to know, seemed to understand. And yet, settled in that hand icy hand, it continued to smile, as though it new the tale that hadn't been told._

Hamish had watched his Papa go, disappearing with his Father downstairs. He could faintly hear the shouting of the newcomer, but was unable to make out the words. He picked at his pancakes as he thought. His Dad's birthday was coming soon. He needed to get him something special. His Dad wasn't hard to please, because he was always happy with whatever Hamish ended up getting him. But it was still hard to get him something that he really, truly liked. His Papa, on the other hand, was easy to get something for. Really easy. A jumper, some tea, or maybe even a new Doctor Who season. But his Dad…well, he was harder.

As he ate, the small boy pondered over what to get him. By the time he had finished his meal, Hamish _still _hadn't thought of anything, sadly. He stood, going to put his plate in the sink, when he heard the window slam shut. But, how? _No one's up here but me, _his mind quickly thought. _So how..?_

Hamish quickly turned, curious as to what had made the sound. _Oh, _his mind whispered, though the voice was slightly panicked as he saw a man standing in their living room. The man was one Hamish knew he hadn't seen before-he would've remembered. He was good at remembering.

The man was tall, like his Daddy, but his body looked like Papa's. He had broad shoulders clad in a leather coat, his arms nearly bursting with muscles. He also had blonde hair like his Papa's, though it wasn't short at all. It had a whiter tint, and hung in his eyes, to which made Hamish notice the intruder's scar. It was pure white and jagged, as though it were a claw that had done the permanent damage. The icy blue eyes turned, catching Hamish's gaze. "Uh-oh," the three-year old whispered, quickly ducking back into the kitchen.

In his head, Hamish prayed that the man hadn't _really _seen him, and that he could run down to his parents, to tell them of the intruder. His Daddy was smart; he would know what to do.

But in reality, he hid, trembling in a small cupboard, clutching his plate so tightly that his knuckles had turned an icy white. He shut the door nearly all the way, only leaving a small crack open so he could peek out.

Each step the man took sounded like thunder to Hamish's ears. He could hear him searching, peering under the table, under chairs, calling to him. "Come out, come out wherever you are…don't you want to play? Come play with Tiger."

Hamish kept himself hidden in the cupboard, running out to duck behind the couch when 'Tiger' had neared. And whenever he came close to his hiding place, Hamish would find a new one whenever his back was turned.

As the man moved, Hamish could see why he called himself Tiger. His movements were smooth and efficient, slow and easy. His muscles rippled under his coat like water with each and every move.

His back was turned for the numerous time when Hamish had made him move, trying to make a sprint for the door. Soon, he found how mistaken he had been the whole time. As soon as Hamish emerged, the man spun, grabbing him with strong arms. A hand came over his mouth, silencing his cries. His plate fell from his hand, shattering against the ground.

_A game, _his mind realized. _It was just a game. _

He could see the searching, and it quickly turned into prowling. Hunting. Every time Tiger had neared, Hamish had moved. And every time Hamish had moved, the man had drawn nearer, herding Hamish towards the window. And now he had him.

_Sunlight slid in the window, bathing the boy in bright, pure sunlight. He seemed to have gained a sort of halo, his pale skin suddenly looking flushed, as though the colour had returned. His body seemed to glow and in the detective's racing mind, he saw how alive he looked. As though at any moment he would rise from his position and begin to play. To run around the saddened people, and hide as he used to. Though, in his heart, he knew that the boy would never rise again. _


	3. Alone

Chapter Three: _Alone _

_Tears streamed down the gathered people's faces as they stared, grief-stricken, at the small boy. A small child broke free of his parents, slowly making his way towards the other boy, near identical in appearance. Clenched in his small hands was a rose, pure white, the petals just beginning to open and gleam in the fresh sunlight, and a stuffed monkey. The plush toy had obviously seen brighter days, the fur matted and one arm limp with missing stuffing, its eye having to be cruelly stitched in. Both items the child placed on the child's chest, and stood staring a few minutes at the boy, before braking into sobs. He begged his friend to return, heart shattering at the loss. _

"So you're trying to tell me your kid vanished from your flat without either of you takin' notice?"

Sherlock sighed, sinking into an overstuffed chair in the Detective Inspector Lestrade's office. He rubbed his face with both hands, which had been overcome by a slight tremor. "Yes, we've gone over the story countless times and yet your idiotic mind still fails to comprehend it," he snapped, voice bitter.

He was feeling more anxious and reckless than normal, his body twitching and unable to keep still. Shooting up from the chair, he began to pace the office, hands buried deeply within his curls.

The DI shook his head, brushing the insult off. "Sherlock, he's barely been missing two days, really. And besides, I deal with murders, not-"

"And what if it is?"

"Do you want it to be?"

For once, Sherlock was rendered speechless. He stared at the Detective Inspector, then glanced away. "I'll do it myself, then," he snarled, turning his back to the other man. "Since you refused to aid us."

Lestrade shook his head, standing. "I'm not refusing, Sherlock. All I'm saying is that I can't help. Not right-"

But the curly headed man was already leaving. "Thank you for what little, idiotic help you've provided, Lestrade." He tugged on his coat, quickly securing his scarf around his neck. "And tell your wife I said hi to the teacher."

Lestrade stared blankly at the man in front of him. "What teacher?"

Face a complete mask of anger, Sherlock marched out of the man's office, leaving his question unanswered. No one approached him, or called out 'freak' in greeting; in fact, no one said anything at all.

_A hush came over the room, making it eerily silent. It was as though a dark cloud had passed over the crowd…unnoticed and unheard. That cloud lingered in the back of the room, his suit coat drawn tightly around his body. A snarl stained his lips, a fire lighting in his dark eyes. His sleeked hair was pushed from his forehead, all but one. It fell over his eyes, streaked with white. He clutched a cell phone in one hand, cracks scattering across the screen as his grip tightened around it, until it shattered, and the remains fell to the ground. _

"How'd it go?" John's voice rose meekly from his settled place in his chair. He hadn't moved all day; only to make another glass of tea when he drained his cup, and to check his mobile and blog for messages that may lead to Hamish's whereabouts.

So far, there had been nothing.

"The bloody idiot is refusing to help," Sherlock growled, pacing angrily. "We're on our own." His voice was acidic: clipping his words, his pale and angular face contorted into a snarl. "I swear, John, if they hurt him, I will _kill them..." _He drew out the words, making them sound venomous and threatening.

The blogger sat up sadly, his dark, far away eyes suddenly lit. "Wait, hold on. What did you say?"

"Are you bloody deaf? I said I'd kill them. Tear them limb from limb."

"That…that isn't like you," John managed as he pushed himself to his feet, once again using his cane for support. Sherlock gave him an expression of confusion and irritation, and John almost chuckled at the rare look.

He didn't. Or rather, couldn't. It felt wrong for such a joyous sound to pass his lips while Hamish was gone. Not when those were sounds he had commonly shared with him.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Of _course _it sounds like me," he snapped. John only shook his head. "No. You sounded like Jim."

For a moment the detective looked shocked, before he promptly pushed the thought away, his face returning to the snarl. "Ridiculous." He flopped on to the couch, his back to his husband.

John sighed again, sitting and resting his head on his fist as he thought. "Do you think it's him?"

"He's _dead, _John."

"Right. Then I suppose we'll just continue to wait for these kidnappers, then?"

"Do shut up already, John."

"Yeah, alright, you git."

_Rain began to pour down, icy and unrelenting. It tumbled from the blackened sky, a few bright stars winding their way through and providing a weak source of light. Breath now came out in white puffs, like that of a tank engine. The rain continued to fall, and the people began to leave, leaving the boy alone once again._

**A/N: Yeah, okay. Long time no update. Sorry for the delay, summer's been keeping me pretty busy. I'll do my best to update every...Thursday or so, but no promises. I'm not very good with keeping deadlines. Also, school's a gonna be starting soon, and that's a whole new version of busy. Like I said, I'll do my best, but no promises. And comments and suggestions are always welcome ;) Hope you liked it! **


	4. Bestfriends

**{TW: Minimal Abuse and Violence}**

Chapter Four- _Bestfriends_

_Only a few remained to watch the small boy be lowered into the ground. Mud had gathered at their feet, caking on the sides of their shoes. No one seemed to mind, or rather, care. They watched with teary eyes as mud began to slide over the coffin, everyone taking a turn to bury him. It wasn't long until he was out of their sight, concealed within the deep, dark ground. Forever gone, forever lost to those who had deeply loved and cherished him._

Hamish woke with a start, his heart racing and roaring in his ears. It reminded him of what it felt like when he ran lots, or when he ran a race against his Daddy or Papa.

For a moments he was confused as to where he was, until the memories came rushing back. There wasn't much; other than being taken. There was a faint memory of a truck, and a large building, but those were unclear and fuzzy. But it wasn't long until his mind cleared…and registered the pain.

The sharp, twisting pain in his head, and the pinching, cruel pain in his wrists, as they had been harshly forced behind him.

Tears splashed his cheeks, and he tugged his knees to his chest and sobbed into them, his small mind not knowing what else to do. Long, screaming begs to go home passed his lips, followed by cries for his parents.

He couldn't see much; the room was too dark for his eyes to make out anything. There was a faint outline of a door, the light cascading underneath illuminating an icy cold, plain, tile floor.

After what felt like ages, there was a sound of voices. The small boy perked up, desperately calling out for help, begging to be let home.

There was a jingle of keys, and the lock turned.

The door swung open, bathing the room in light. Hamish shrank back, whimpering and blinking.

A man walked forwards, his body covered in a tightly fitted suit. His hair was slicked back, his hands clasped behind him. Hamish didn't know him, or recognize his face. He wouldn've known, because he was real good at remembering things. He looked like the bad guy from one of the books his Daddy would read him, the one he remembered with the eyes held that wicked glow. The same glow the man had now; the deep one that made you always know that something bad was coming soon.

"Why, good morning, sleepy head," The evil-looking man drawled, waking forward and kneeling in front of the shaking child. His hand gently reached out, brushing a few of the tears away. "Did your Daddy ever tell you about the Big Bad Wolf?"

_The night was cold and dark. The rain had long but ceased, the stars in the sky spelling out constellations and echoing the sadness felt bellow. Bouquets of flowers covered the small grave, some already beginning to wilt and die. They were left there for a child, whose time had come to soon, and the small act of courage he gave. _

Hamish leaned away from the knife that was far too close to his small, chubby arm for his liking. He had been forced on to a table and strapped down, screaming and sobbing loudly.

Mr. Moriarty, as he had introduced himself, stood in the corner, smiling as he watched. Tiger brought the knife down, and Hamish watched the silver, gleaming in the light, splash with blood as the sharp tip was pressed into his skin. Blood beaded up from around the knife and wound, trickling down to his wrist, and around his fingers.

At that point, Hamish was hysterical. His screams seemed to make Mr. Moriarty mad, because in the next moments, there was shouting, and crying, and Hamish was being forced back into the room where he had woken.

When the door was slammed shut once again, a small voice, one that didn't belong to Hamish, gave a small, "Daddy?" and was followed by Mr. Moriarty's voice. "Oh, sweetheart. Did we wake you?"

"Why was there screamin'?"

"Come on, Lex. I'll tuck you in."

Everything was quiet for a while, and Hamish managed to get himself to sleep, but was startled awake when the door opened again. He whimpered and frowned deeply when he realized it wasn't Mr. Moriarty or Tiger. It was a little boy.

He looked a little like Hamish, but was taller and looked younger. His hair was a snowy blonde, his eyes a deep brown and were filled with misunderstanding worry and sadness. "You were screamin'," He whispered, a free hand nervously clutching a raggedy, hole-infested blanket, the other fisted in his space themed pyjamas. "An' you got a big big owie."

Hamish closed his eyes and gave a small nod. He wanted _his _blanket and _his _pyjamas. But…they were at home. With his…"I want my Daddy and Papa," he whined.

The other boy looked hurt, clutching his blanket tighter, so it brushed against his flushed cheek. "I donno where dey are," he answered before swallowing and bravely taking a step inside. "Want me ta kiss your owie bedder? That's what ma Daddy does when I get an' owie."

The three-year old paused. His Daddy and Papa weren't there to kiss his owie better. But..it _really, really _hurt. And if he didn't…who was?

"Yeah," Hamish finally whispered.

Clutching his blanket close, the blonde boy took a few steps inside, appearing at Hamish's side. He bent, placing a kiss to the bleeding wound. His lips came away red, but he didn't seem to care. "Dhere. All bedder now."

A weak smile came to Hamish's lips. "Thank you…um.."|

"Alex."

"Thank you..Alex. I'm Hamish."

"Hi, Ha'ish."

"I'm three."

"I'm two an' a _half. _Daddy says in four mowe weeks I'm three."

"Wanna be my friend?"

"Yeah. I neber had a fwiend before."

_A small tear drifted down the weeping child's face. A crystal tear, for the loss of a friend. The loss of a playmate, a brother, an angel…a piece of himself. Too young to understand, he clung to his father, sobbing into the silky fabric of his suit. _

**A/N: YAY! Finally done :) Sorry for the long wait, guys. Summer travels. And writing block. But don't worry, I'm working on the next two chapters right now and should be up within a few days.  
**


	5. Deductions

Chapter Five: _Deductions_

_Rain fell down like tear drops, dampening the already moist Earth. The rain hadn't been forgiving as it cast down over the weeks, causing people to hide within their homes. One person stood at the foot of the small grave, his tears mingling with the rain. His mouth was pressed into a thin line as he stared at the bouquet littered grave, his hands in fists. He said nothing, only staring quietly through the rain, trapped within memories. _

Sherlock paced the flat with an angry air, his strides quick and long. He remained silent, though his mouth moved in silent, unsaid words. His husband watched him with wary eyes that were heavy with deep bruises. "Sherlock," he breathed.

The man didn't respond.

"_Sherlock," _He repeated, louder.

"What?" The detective snapped.

"Calm down."

The other man spun, his eyes wide and sparked with flame. "_Calm down?" _He echoed, though his words were clipped and his tone horribly cruel. "If you haven't noticed, John, our son is gone. _Poof! _Seemingly into thin air." His hands moved in wild gesturesd as he spoke, his body giving angry jerks. "No evidence other than the mysterious shattered plate and the open window…" He stopped mid-sentence and let out a long, _oh. _"Oh, John. John, thank you," he blurted, turning yet again.

He ran over, grabbing the hand the very puzzled doctor, and dragging him out of the chair. "Come on, John!" He shouted as they barrelled out the door.

"Wha-Sherlock! Sherlock what, what are we doing? _Sherlock!" _John stammered as he tripped over his feet, trying to keep up with the other man's long strides.

The detective didn't stop, continuing to run outside, and then around the building. It wasn't until they were bellow the window that they stopped and he bent, scanning the area and ground.

"The intruder came in through the window, using the fire escape," he began to deduct from his place on the ground, seeming looking for clues. John's mouth opened to reply, but only to be cut off. "And the fire escape has been broken and unusable for years. So he must've been tall, and physically trained."

Turning, he raced towards the fire escape, the latter cracked half way up, and groaning loudly, heavily painted with rust. John shouted at him not to, and that it was to dangerous and unstable, but he was ignored and Sherlock leapt, grabbing on to the last rung.

"He-_ugh-_climbed up and wandered up here," Sherlock grunted as he struggled to pull himself up. From there, he climbed towards the window. "And pushed open the window. So there has to be…" He stopped.

On the ground, John frowned, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked upwards. "Sherlock? Sherlock, did you find something?"

He was answered by a small red coat being thrown at him. The doctor picked it up, his frown deepening. "This is Hamish's coat. Must've dropped it when he was taken."

"Was he wearing a coat that morning, John?"

"Well, no, but…why leave a coat for us to find?"

"Do you really not understand? You were right. It's him."

"You mean…"

"_Little Red Riding Hood. _Who else?"

John's eyes went shockingly wide, his jaw and throat tightening. He took a shaky breath, the jacket knotting in his fists. "Dammit."

_The man continued to stand there, not seeming to notice the rain soaking through his coat. His eyes remained on the grave, a tremble taking over his clenched fists. He didn't turn or acknowledge when a gentle hand was placed on his shoulder. The newcomer's hand tightened in a gentle squeeze, though he said nothing. Nothing needed to be said; the words of sorrow, of regret, had already been long been exchanged, leaving an empty hole within them. The rain continued to poor down, unstopping, unwavering. As though the skies themselves were overcome with grief. _

"What now?" John asked quietly once they were both back in the flat, sitting down.

Sherlock held a cup of tea in one hand, though it was cold and untouched. "I should have killed him," he said as an answer.

"Jim? We all thought he was dead. You couldn't have known."

"No, not Jim," He replied calmly, setting his tea down. The curly head turned to stretch along the couch with his hands steepled together. His thinking pose, John knew. He sat back in his chair quietly, waiting for his husband to go on.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," Sherlock drawled, his tone deep and resonating. "Much like you, he was deployed in Afghanistan. Brilliant sniper. Many of those who know him say he's the best there is." He paused, his eyes moving as though seeing something John couldn't. "Which is why, I suppose, Jim employed him. Very helpful for him, an assassin. Or hit man. Whatever you wish to call what Moran does." Another pause. "Do you recall when I jumped?"

"Can we not talk about that? I still hate heights."

"I told you upon my return there was a sniper trained on you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade."

"That was him."

"I also told you I had been taking down Jim's web. He was the last on my list."

"So you didn't off him."

"I _couldn't. _There was a child with him. Barely a few months old. How could I take his life? Take that child's Father from them, and right before their eyes?" He shook his head. "And the child..they seemed to know. He never cried the whole time I pressed that gun to Moran's skull. Just…looked at me. As though they knew what was going on. I couldn't pull the damn trigger."

John sat up slightly. "I was wrong, then."

Sherlock turned, frowning. "About what?"

"To think you never had a heart."

That struck Sherlock into silence, and he turned away again, his eyes trained on the roof. With a sigh, John got up and went to the kitchen. He wasn't in there long before Sherlock was shouting loudly for him.

"What?" John demanded, running out, a half made tea in his hands.

"Get the door."

"It didn't even bloody ring! God, you scared me, Sherlock."

"It didn't need to. _The door_, John."

Grumbling, John descended the stairs and returned a few minutes later, throwing a sealed package at Sherlock. That earned him a weak glare, but the other man was too busy inspecting and opening the package to put very much effort into it.

John had returned to the kitchen, and was called on again. Though this time, Sherlock's voice was quiet and tight. The doctor returned, jaw clenched as he struggled not lose his temper. "What now?"

Sherlock lifted Hamish's shirt, the dinosaur one he had been wearing, the one sleeve torn and stained with a large amount of blood.

_Night fell and the two men turned away, though the other man's hand never left his shoulder. As they left, darkness took over the skies, the stars coming out, protectively watching out over the small grave. _

**A/N: Yay! Finished in time! Been working on this one for a while. So glad I got to finish. Hope you like this one. Not much happening, but ah well. Should up load soon. Have a great rest of the week!**


	6. Ruby and Max

**T/W: Child Abuse and Negligence **

Chapter Six: _Ruby and Max_

_As they walked home, both men's eyes were far and distant. Memories fogged their minds; of playing pirates, of stealing biscuits and sweets, cuddles together curled up by the fire…memories they'd never again share. The only reminder they had now were the abandoned toys, messy bedrooms, and the memories forever branded to their minds. _

Hamish had been left in darkness after Alex had to go to bed. He had fallen asleep beside the chained boy, and only woke when Hamish had cried out. He had brushed against his cut, shifting in his sleep.

"I gotta go ta bed," Alex had mumbled while rubbing his sleep-fogged eyes. "Or…" He yawned, "ma Daddy'll get real mad." He turned to leave. "But I'll get ya a plaster first. We got bue Thomas twain ones."

After that, he had left, but didn't return. Hamish waited and waited, and waited. But his friend didn't come back.

He had perked up hopefully when his door opened, but his face fell when it wasn't Alex. Instead, it was Mr. Moriarty and Tiger, but they had two kids with them. Tiger held the small boy in his arms and the hand of an equally small girl.

Both of them were badly beaten, a large gash opened on the boy's temple. His hair was shaggy and long, brushing past his ears. Some of it fell over his eyes, which were bruised and black and beginning to flutter open.

The girl clung to Tiger's hand tightly, while blood dripped from her shoulder, blending with her red coat, but staining the white dress underneath. Vast amounts of tears fell from her eyes, dripping on to her cheeks and falling from her chin. She gave a loud sniffle, and Tiger shoved her inside, making her scream loudly. Next the boy was thrown inside. He snapped awake as he hit the ground, rolling into the wall.

A loud crack echoed the room, coming from the other boy's leg. Hamish gasped when he noticed that it wasn't going the right way…The boy was screaming, and so was the girl, and so Hamish gladly joined.

The two men laughed at the wailing children, and slammed the door shut, cutting off their cries.

_The rain didn't stop for weeks. But as the rain gradually faded, the sun came, shinning and bright overhead. Flowers grew in a variety of shades, sprouting around the grave and bursting city. Visits to the sad sight became less frequent and then slowly became a rarity. Life was changing-moving on. Sadness left behind them, happiness returning. _

To a three year old, it seemed like they were left in there for days. He could barely speak-his voice was gone, or when he _did _speak, his voice was frog-like and really silly. Under different circumstances, he would have made a joke of it, laughing with his parents, but…now, he remained silent.

The girl gave a small hiccup, pushing a blonde hair out of her eyes. The boy was sleeping…or, that's what it looked like to Hamish. "What's your name?" The girl whispered, reaching over to inspect his cut. Her voice sounded really silly too.

"Hamish," He replied. "An' I'm three."

For some reason he didn't know, the girl looked surprised. "Oh. I'm Ruby. I'm eight." She rubbed her eyes, smearing red across her face, and pointed to the small curled mass against the wall. "That's Max. He's only seven." She sniffled. "Why'd they take us?"

Hamish shrugged, and then winced as pain shot up his shoulder. "I-I donno. But Mr. Moriarty and Tiger are really, really mean. They give owies."

Ruby gave a small nod. "I know. We'll get you out of here, okay? We'll get you back to your Mummy and Daddy."

"I don't have a Mummy. Just a Daddy and Papa."

"Um..oh. Um…okay. We'll get you back to you're…um..family, then."

Hamish's mouth popped open, but was caught off when the door was swung open. He stood, hoping for Alex, but whimpering and backing up when it wasn't his friend.

Mr. Moriarty stood there rubbing his hands together, Tiger at his side, a knife in one hand, a big gun in another. "_Shoow Time!" _Mr. Moriarty sang, as though it were a song. When he clapped his hands, Max and Ruby were drug forwards, screaming.

Once again, Hamish joined their screams until the door slammed shut behind them.

And that was last time Hamish saw Ruby and Max.

_Darkness fell over the returning land. Everything was quiet and peaceful, no one stirring. The grave lay peaceful and silent, the flowers decorating it swaying in the light breeze. The air was tinted with a light smell of spring; the smell of the past fallen rain, new flowers, and of sweet-smelling wind. It was hot, the wind doing nothing to dissipate the heat. The parents of the deceased slept uneasily in their beds. The sweat plaguing their bodies wasn't from the heat, but rather from the grieving nightmares taking over their minds. Their world may have gone on, but they were falling behind, lost within memories._

**A/N: Woah! The action's starting now. That and…we've gained so many followers! *applauses everyone for having faith in this story* You are amazing. I honestly thought now one would take a liking to it ;) Seems I was wrong! New chapter should be up soon. Warning though…things get pretty gross and...disturbing from here on in. **


	7. Baskets

Chapter Seven: _Baskets _

_Spring came and left, the leaves falling from the trees as fall arrived. The colours red, orange, and gold dominated London, as were the Halloween decorations that followed. Children shrieked for joy as they plummeted into grand leaf piles, laughing as the leaves scattered across the lawn in a flurry of colours. Though there was one child missing; a small, sweet one, as eager as the rest, and just as kind, fading away with the falling leaves._

When the telephone rang at nearly three in the morning, both parents leapt to retrieve it. Sherlock was the winner, having been partially awake anyways, and snatched the mobile, pressing it to his ear. "What is it? What do you want?" He snapped.

The voice that answered wasn't the one he'd expected. "Hey, I've got a case-" And the call was ended before the DI could finish his sentence.

A few moments later, Greg called again. "Look, Sherlock. Just come check it out. It was two _kids._"

Sherlock's mouth slid open, but didn't shut. His stomach dropped somewhere around his feet, along with his heart as he began to make small, quick deductions. John gave a wary nod and got up to get their clothes and coats.

"Yeah, we'll be right there. What's the address? Right. See you," Sherlock muttered bitterly. Ending the call, he let the phone linger in his hand for a few minutes, staring at it, before he shoved it into his pocket.

"It may not be him," John said quietly, tugging on a jumper.

"Do you know for sure it has nothing to _do_ with him?"

"No, but.."

"Why do you think he would call then, John?"

"To get your mind off it? Maybe he thinks it'll help."

"Ridiculous. My son is out there, with _Jim _and you're asking me simply to _think of something else?_" He paused, shaking his head. "For god's sakes, John. You're worse than Anderson, you idiot."

The detective turned to face the other man, and was confronted with a sock to the face. He pulled it away in puzzlement, and saw John, jaw clenched and his trapped in his tight fist. "I….was trying to help, you know. This is isn't any better for me. But…" He made a frustrated grunt at not being able to form the words. "And you're just being an utter _dick _about it."

Sherlock's jaw dropped slightly, clearly trying to sort out what to say. In the end, it was only a quiet plea. "John-"

"Forget it," John snapped as he slipped on his coat and shoes, turning to the door.

"No, but-"

"I said _forget it, _Sherlock. Lets just go."

_Darkness came and decorations of evil and fear sprung out amongst the homes in the forms of pumpkins and cartoon-looking monsters. Treats and candy were brought in by the bucket full, with children eagerly trying to sneak a piece from their parents. Laughter was often heard echoing around, mixing with the other, grieving voices._

"Ruby Kohere and Max McDoughall," Lestrade's voice droaned on. "Ages eight and seven. They went missing yesterday, and weren't found 'till this mornin' by a couple a kids."

Sherlock silently crouched by the bodies, going over to them, his eyes taking in everything. He glanced up at the man next to him. "John?"

The doctor sighed and crouched. He took the cold hand of the small boy, studying it, before turning to the gash in the girl's throat. He pushed to his feet again. "Well, they haven't been dead long. And both were abused before they died. The cut and broken leg are old injuries." His eyes lingered on the children a moment longer. He couldn't help but think of his son, his _baby, _lying there like that, somewhere, and quickly rushed on. "There was blood and teeth, and they're identical to the bites on her throat and shoulder. I'm guessing, in some sick twisted way, they made him attack her, then cut open his stomach, leaving them to die of their wounds."

Sherlock gave a nod, bending again. "They weren't sibling. Friends, more than likely. Both were walking home and grabbed from behind-the marks on their hips. More than likely thrown in a van, from the look of their ankles." He frowned slightly, but the look vanished as quick as it came. His hand slipped in the boy's pocket, and he pulled out what looked like woven grass. John glanced up at him, watching as he slipped it in his pocket.

"Do let us know if you find anything else," Sherlock drawled, turning to tug John away. He magically hailed a cab and they both climbed in.

They weren't in there long before John's mouth opened. "What was that?"

"A pair of dead children."

"I meant what did you find, Sherlock."

"Woven grass. Apart of a basket, more than likely."

"What's the point of that? Its pointless."

"Is it? I would like to think of it as a hint. How Jim does like those. His little riddles."

"A hint?"

"Yes. Didn't you know? Miss Little Red Riding Hood conveniently carried one."

John stared at him, mouth open slightly. "You mean…oh God." He said slowly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced out the window. "Exactly why we're on our way to Bart's."

Molly yawned heavily as she brought in three cups of coffee. "So…." Another yawn. "What did you need me for?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his microscope. "I forgot my keys." He said simply. "And it wasn't as though you were doing anything."

"I was spending the night with my boyfriend, actually."

"Then I'd end the relationship. Clearly you aren't too interested as you were _far _too interested to come join us. That and he's having an affair with….ah. The coffee shop woman."

John rubbed his temples, eyes shut. "_Sherlock…" _

Molly set down the coffee roughly, much to roughly for her character, and upset some of the cups, causing Sherlock's head to turn up. "You know…I was just trying to be nice. You've…you've lost your son. And I..I was trying to help. But you're always…_always.._so mean.." She cast her gaze downwards, shaking her head. "Why..why do I bother?"

"Molly..I'm.."

"No, no, its fine. Let me just get some napkins."

Sherlock stood, going over to Molly, who's face was a dark shade of red. She glanced away, but he gently tilted her chin upwards. "I apologize. I was wrong in my speaking. My mind has been…other places. It seems I have hurt you. I hadn't meant to."

The girl's mouth opened, her blush darkening. "I-I-I.." She managed, and Sherlock dropped his hand, turning back to his microscope. "Don't stutter, Molly. It doesn't suit you."

Molly's mouth had opened to reply when Sherlock made an excited noise, leaping from his chair and calling for John.

The doctor had returned with a flannel, his brows raised. "What-?" He was cut off when his wrist was seized, and he was pulled out the door. "Grass Baskets!" Sherlock declared. "A shop that ran down a few years ago."

"I gather you want to check it out."

"Naturally. The only we lead we have."

"Lets go, then."

Molly watched them disappear out the door, her mouth open in a silent answer. Her hand raised in a good-bye wave, though they were already gone. "I…thought you would have noticed the lipstick," She finished, dropping her hand.

**A/N: Woohoo! Finished in time. Sorry for missing the stuff at the bottom (I'm running out of ideas; uh oh. I'll try to add something later. Hope your week goes well!)**


	8. Of Cookies and Promises

**T/W: Mention of and Abuse (Of both child and teenagers)**

Chapter Eight: _Of Cookies and Promises_

_As the days grew colder, snow began to blanket the ground in a soft white powder. Children were bundled in tight, warm clothing, all of them…but one. The one who was six feet under, the snow on their grave their blanket, the cold coffin they lied in their warm bed, and the dirt around them their home. _

Everything was quiet. Before, Hamish enjoyed quiet. It meant he had the world to himself. No distractions, no one else. But now….he hated it. He need _something. Anything._

But he had nothing.

No toys he could get lost in, no world's he could travel to. Just the cold, dark room, and the fear eating at his chest and mind.

He fell asleep off and on, having nothing else to do, and trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder.

When the door loudly creaked open, he sat up, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes.

"Ha'ish?"

A small smile crept to his face. "Alex!" He croaked excitedly.

The blond-haired boy grinned and ran inside, enveloping Hamish in a hug. "Hi, Ha'ish!"

Hamish returned the hug to the best of his abilities, which was difficult, as his hands had been forced behind him, and had gained a tingly-hurting feeling.

When his new friend had settled beside him, he began to dig in a small Postman Pat bag. "I has cookies," he murmured and cheered when he found his snack. "Here," he offered, extending the bag.

"I can't take it. Ma arms are stuck," the other boy whined.

Frowning, Alex took this into consideration, glancing at the bag, and then at his friend. He stood, rounding Hamish to inspect the handcuffs. He tugged and kicked at them, causing Hamish to cry and shout, (_owie, owie, Alex! )_and the other boy hugging him and apologizing, placing a small kiss to his cheek. "Sowwy, Ha'ish. An yeps. They stuck ahwight."

Alex settled beside him, tugging his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them, his lip slightly stuck out and his thin brows drawn together as he thought deeply. After a long few minutes, and Hamish shifting awkwardly, Alex spoke up. "Just eat it wif your teeth!" He giggled, lifting the cookie to his mouth and dropping his hands once the treat was trapped in his teeth. "Like a puppeh!"

Hamish smiled and nodded, leaning forwards to catch the one Alex had offered in his mouth, before leaning back and making small quick bites so it crumbled into his mouth, a few chunks landing on the floor.

"Yay!" Alex cheered, clapping his hands and spewing crumbs from the bite of cookie he had in his mouth.

The other smiled, but it faded quickly when he saw a figure in the doorway.

Alex frowned, nearly mirroring his friend's pale, frightened expression. "Ha'ish?" He whispered, his hand-held out as he offered another cookie. He turned, and his small face paled even more. "Uh-ohs. H-Hi, Daddy. We just sharings."

Mr. Moriarty glared, and he pointed out the door quickly. "_Out!" _He snapped. The two-year old whimpered, and slinked away, leaving the bag and cookies. "Bye, Ha'ish," he whispered.

Alex's father paused before turning to Hamish and struck the cookies with his foot, crumbling them into dust before turning and slamming the door as he left.

Hamish stared at the cookies, then where his friend and Father left. Tears welled in his eyes and he pressed his face into his knees as the terrifying silence returned.

_Children laughed and giggled as they played within the soft powder of snow. Shelters and tall snow friends were made, all protections from the war that had begun. Their shrieks and laughter could be heard from every point in London, though not one child paused to look for their missing friend. The one who couldn't partake in the game anymore. The one who was alone; the one who was lost. _

The next time Mr. Moriarty came, it wasn't as silent as the last. The door crashed open, slamming against the inner wall and causing Hamish to bolt up, into a sitting position.

Two people were thrown next to him, and there was a bunch of shouting of bad words that made him want to cover his ears.

_ "Let us go, you ugly bastard!" _The boy yelled, which only resulted in Tiger hitting his mouth, really, really hard. A crack rang around them, which reminded Hamish of the sound Max's leg made before it went funny.

Then, it seemed it was the girl's turn to yell. _"You broke it! Holy fucking christ, you broke his jaw!" _

Both men's faces were steely and cold as they left, shutting the door with a loud slam.

The girl swallowed hard, small tears splashing her face as she turned, making a small "oh" sound as her eyes fell on Hamish. A hand extended towards him, but he only flinched away, pressing himself against the wall.

"What's your name?" She whispered, as though afraid to be heard. "I'm Autumn, and," she gestured to the boy, "this is Spot."

"Hamish," he whispered.

She brushed a tear off his face tenderly with her thumb. "Well…Hamish, we'll get you home. I-I don't know what they want, but we'll keep you safe."

Hamish closed his eyes and replaced his head on his knees. "That's what Ruby said," he whispered. "And Ruby's gone. They took 'er."

Autumn's eyes widened as she glanced at Spot, who paled quickly. Another few moments of silence passed before Hamish gained the courage to speak again. "I want my Daddy and Papa," he sobbed.

With a sigh, Autumn pulled him into her arms slowly, careful of his wound. She rubbed his back and looked to Spot, who was cradling his jaw with his eyes shut tightly. "I know," Autumn cooed. "So do I."

They had a formulated a plan. Or, that's what it seemed to Hamish.

Autumn had wrapped her red blazer around his bare, shivering, shoulders. Hamish had told them about Ruby and Max, and Alex, to more clarity this time. "They never came back?" Autumn whisper, to which Hamish nodded, and Spot groaned.

The two teens exchanged a glance, and Autumn sighed. "Well, no doubt they'll come for us. So we'll just wait, I suppose."

They didn't have to wait long.

Mr. Moriarty and Tiger came in nearly twenty minutes later, and Hamish whimpered as he pressed himself closer to Autumn.

Bravely, she stood, walking over to Tiger. "Wh-why do you want us?" She asked gently, looking up at him with big doe eyes. One hand traveled to his chest, her other moving for his hand. "My parents will p-pay. Pl-please. Let us go." Her hand laced with his, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. Tiger's eyes narrowed.

"Ahtum-!" Hamish cried, jumping to his feet as Tiger's hand snapped forwards, and Autumn's wrist snapped. A loud scream echoed from her throat, and Tiger tossed her aside, grabbing on to Spot. The boy put up and fight and struggle, until a swift blow to the temple rendered him still.

Hamish screamed, though it sounded feeble and awful, and he scrambled to get away, fearing he was next. But Mr. Moriarty was quick, grabbing his arms and shoving him against the wall. "I wouldn't _say a word, _if you'd like to make it to the last act," He hissed, bringing them so they were nose to nose.

"I…will _end you,_" He growled, his eyes flashing with vicious light. "Just as I ended your Father. I will tear you limb from limb and watch as every, _every, _last drop of blood stains your parent's pretty little floor. You will all go down in _flames." _

With that, Hamish started to sob, loudly, and more than he ever hard before. More than we had broken his arm, or nose, or when they hurt his arm.

He wanted his Daddy and Papa.

He didn't want to die.

_The days grew colder, the darkness coming sooner. Snow grew thicker as he pillowed the ground, and frost began to decorate the windows like stunning lace ware. Children drew on fogged windows; creating works of art with the tip of their fingers. Giggles of excitement grew loud with the promise of Father Christmas, the countdown until Christmas had begun. One child remained silent, lost within the haunted memories of his past, having lost his one friend. The one he had held most dear, and the one who had given him the best gift of all. The gift he would care for, and preserve. _

**A/N: SO, SO sorry for my lack of updates! Life has been life, and I've been major busy :( Hope that was a decent chapter. Had some questions about Mycroft, and Hamish's capturing time span. May add Mycroft in, but I really don't want to say how long Hamish will be there for. Not to terribly long, I promise. **


	9. Blood

Chapter Nine: _Blood _

_A small child lied in his bed, silent. His mind was lost in the realm of dreams, giggling and laughing in content. No horrors or sadness of his conscious mind entered his dreams, and a small smile spread across his lips; a rare one, that hadn't been seen for a long time. In those dreams, he held the hand of another small boy, who echoed his laughter and giggles. A larger hand shook him from the bliss, calling him back to the harsh reality he belonged to. The hands broke apart;like the breaking of the child's heart as he woke without the tender, reassuring warmth of his friend. Small hands rubbed sleep from his saddened, dark eyes. His smile fell, like the new fall of snow, and he didn't return his father's warm, sad smile. _

Both distressed men wandered down the pathway, one leaning heavily on his cane, the other walking with a quick, brisk pace. His coat bellowed around him as he walked, his eyes taking in everything. "John!" He snapped, "Keep up!"

The doctor gave an irritated sigh. "Sherlock, I'm doing my best. Not everyone can walk a mile a bloody minute." The detective muttered something inaudible in reply, before stopping dead in his tracks. "_Where?" _He shouted, throwing his hands up and spinning to face the other man. "I've memorized all of London and _nothing. Where?!" _

John leaned against his cane, rubbing his temple with his freehand. His tongue snaked out between his two lips, wetting the surface before darting back in; a nervous habit. "Calm down," he finally breathed. "You'll attract a damn crowd."

A sigh slipped past Sherlock's small lips, and he shook his head, said lips curving into a snarl. "Oh, yes, John. Lets calm down, have a cup of tea. Ah, what does it matter? Shall I make it clear for you? My son is out there, _dying-" _

"_Our _son, Sherlock."

"Excuse me?"

"You said 'my son'. Hamish is our son, last I thought."

"Irrelevant."

John's face heated colour and he opened his mouth to snap something in reply, something along the lines of, _then what is it? _when he was cut off by a scream. A loud, high pitched, and breathy scream. Before John could catch his senses, Sherlock was off and running. The doctor ran after him, the adrenalin suddenly coursing through his veins.

Pictures flashed through his mind as he followed after his husband, blurring and mixing the contents of reality and thought.

_Hamish, smiling. Eyes a bright blue, like the clear sky of London, when it wasn't raining, that is. Undertones of iridescent gold and green giving them endless depth, as though there were a whole world behind those eyes. So much like Father, wasn't he? The two children, bleeding with their blood sliding and staining the ground-No. Keep up with Sherlock. He's getting ahead-_The two images slid together to create a scene that made the good doctor's heart nearly stop. _Blood plastered the side of the boy's head, matting the dark curls. His eyes were distant and glassy, blurring the blue colour. A faint trickle of blood slid out his nose, and rolled over the small, rosy, heart shapes lips, until they mingled with the blood gathered and pooling at the nape of his neck. Small, glassy eyes turned to fixate on John, causing his breath to catch. Blood stained lips opened, quietly, and whispered, "Fingers beat five, three times. Save us, save us. Fingers beat five, three times. Save me…Papa." His voice changed, becoming deeper, and his small, pale hands reached out to shake John. "John! John! John….!" _

His husband's voice brought him out of the dream. He was shaking and shouting at him. "John!" Once he realized that the man was conscious again, he cursed. "He knocked you out," he muttered. "Moran knocked you out as you were running towards them." As though explaining who _them _was, he gestured towards the two teenagers lying splayed across the pavement. Both eyes were open with a mixture of horror, but held the same glassy fog Hamish's had. John stared at them blankly, barely able to support his weight.

Sherlock was on the phone, though John could barely understand the words he spoke. His body went forwards of its own accord, hands stretching to take their pulse, pressing his hands against the blood soaked skin.

The girl's eyes flickered, turning their fearful gaze to his equal frightened. "Don't…don't worry…" He breathed. "You'll be alright. Just let me…let me.."

A hand on his shoulder, and he glanced up to see Sherlock, shaking his head. Briefly, his eyes fell shut. Brushing a sticky strand of hair off her head, John held the girl's hands. He watched her chest begin to rise and fall rapidly, her body giving distressed spasms, until eventually it fell still.

His hands stayed clasped in hers, the police sirens barely registering on his fogged mind. As the paramedics arrived, they pried John from the girl. Though he acknowledged the warmth of his husband's arms around him, his eyes remained focused on the girl. Her eyes were still open, and glassy. Though to John, it seemed as though her scarlet lips were moving, silently whispering. "_Fingers beat five, three times. Fingers beat five, three times. Save us, save us…" _

_The boy sat silently on the floor, pushing a train on a wooden track. The train was new, its plastic face yet to be ruined by small, uncareful hands. The blue paint on the sides was shinning brightly in the dim light, the eyes staring blankly ahead and the smile wide. Over the cheeks were a faint rouge, matching the outline of the one on it's side. The train was pushed into a tunnel, where the darkness swallowed its cheery face and bright colours. The boy rose, hair falling into his eyes, taking the hand of his father. And the train remained, trapped in darkness, forgotten and left._

**A/N: Again, sorry for the no upload. And short chapter. And my inability to be dedicated to this story. -.- School's been awful, and I have a camp I have to get ready for. But life is life. Hope this chapter was good. Please send me your comments, thoughts, maybe even prompts. You can message me here, or my tumblr's sherlockianh . Working on the next chapter. Should be up soon. If anything, before Season 3. **


	10. Ashes

**[T/W: Violence/Gore.] **

Chapter Ten: _Ashes _

_The promise of gifts and the arrival of Father Christmas held no joy and did not turn a smile on the boy's face. Packaged presents laid at the foot of a tree, the lights giving a false sense of cheeriness, and giving the room a week glow. Each present held a carefully chosen gift, sure to please its owner. All of them had bright, colourful paper and finished with a bow. The child was careful as he opened them, using precise caution and care not to rip the paper. His father gave him a small, sincere smile, placing a strong hand on his back. A silent promise that it was alright to rip it, to mess your work. "That's what's fun. Tearing it open, bit by bit, and watching it fall apart at your fingertips." _

Four deaths. _Four. _Two called the morning before. Two adults, the same way. The woman's throat tore open, the man's stomach slit with traces of the woman's blood on his fingers and nails. A day later, two children, but they were different. Much different. It seemed a serial killer, until then. Lestrade wasn't so certain it was Jim anymore. But oh no, Sherlock knew. He could tell, as always.

It was another game.

They'd been there when the children had died. Unable to save another pair, opting for waiting, watching as the light faded from their eyes, their last breath being drawn.

They'd been following one of Sherlock's insane leads, a trace of a biscuit and muffin he'd found in the woman's coat and under her nails. They'd heard the screams, and ran, expecting the worse.

What they had found in that alleyway had made John feel the need to rid himself of his stomach's contents.

There was a boy and a girl, as always. The girl's feet were raw and bloody, the blood sliding and winding down in thick, hot ribbons. Glass stuck out in all shapes, angles, and sizes, as thought she were forced to walk amongst some. Some of the glass caught the light, sending scarlet rainbows around the death scene. The boy's hands too were covered in glass and pools of blood. John wasn't like Sherlock, but it was obvious he had tried to help the girl by removing the shards, only winding up injuring himself worse. The girl's dress was in ragged tatters, her blond hair mussed with black.

Sherlock had knelt, running his hand through it and smelling. "Ashes," he murmured. John watched him, deep bags burrowed under his eyes. "Ashes?" He echoed blankly.

"It's Cinderella." He gestured to the girl's feet. "Glass slippers. The prince put them on her foot."

John's mouth opened to ask how he knew that, how he knew so much about childish fairytale, only the mental picture that flashed in his mind stopped his words before they reached his tongue. _Sherlock, falling, the wind rushing past and tousling his already rowdy curls. His arms waving in large, panicked circular motions as though trying to lessen the fall…._The doctor stumbled backwards before he could think, hands pressed to his temples.

"L-let's go home," he managed as he looked up to see Sherlock's quizzical look.

Sherlock nodded, ignoring the loud ring of his phone going off, alerting a text.

Text : Received. Unknown number.

Come and play, Sherly. It's midnight. Time is striking. JM

John glanced at Sherlock, going to ask him to check his phone, but was taken by the hand and instead lead to a waiting cab. Sighing, he climbed in, leaning against the seat. Sherlock stared out the window, tapping a few beats with his fingers against the thigh of his legs. Lost in old memories.

The rest of the day was spent in utter silence.

_The child sat at the foot of his bed, silently playing with his new gifts. His eyes traveled out the windwo, to where a new snowfall was starting. It fell slowly, lazily. The boy then traveled over to where his plate of cookies rested, and the words, "eat it like a puppeh!" ghosted through his mind, with the giggles following soon after. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as they filled with tears, shoving the toy's off his bed where they clattered to the floor, some shattering, some cracking. The boy stared at the broken toys, wondering quietly if he could piece his heart and mind back the same way he could the toys. _

**A/N: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get it. No update. I'm not going to give you excuses, other than the fact that I'm really busy. I have my own personal novel I'm working on, and I'm doing my best to keep this story on the right track. This one's short, only because I have rememberance Day tomorrow that I have something to sing for. But, if it helps, I gave away a few hints as to the final outcome, or my plan...maybe. Curious as to what your thoughts are. I would love your feedback! Please comment, guys!  
**


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